


Convalescence

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Iron Man 3, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Sleepy Cuddles, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Tony gets the arc reactor removed. He has a lot of feelings about it. He also has a Steve.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 2
Kudos: 116





	Convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober continues! <3 I thought I'd give you a break after _Breakwater_ with a shorter piece. Fear not, we have plenty of exciting longer works ahead of us, but I hope to sprinkle in these shorter works, as well.
> 
> Yours always,  
> -Cap'n Panda

Some wounds just never seemed to go away.

Looking in the mirror, Tony stared at the mess of bandages wrapped around the center of his chest, one hand sweeping the skin below them. Even there, the skin felt very sensitive—dauntingly sensitive. Unbroken skin was very tough, but scar tissue—it was difficult. Almost delicate. A reminder that it was the aftermath, the second iteration, that _what once was will never be again._

There were memories underneath the bandages. Memories he could not erase; memories that resonated with him. The bone saw. The white lights. The red-soaked bandages.

No one had asked him to count back from ten, the first time. But despite the sterility of it all, being under those bright lights hadn’t been easier the second time: the second time, he had _known_ what would come, and that had made it difficult to not dread it. Even as he had insisted that he was fine, he had panted with fear, struggling to comply when all he had wanted to do was run. In his head, he had backed down from the surgery many times, but aloud, he had remained dauntless. 

He would be happier without the arc reactor. He had promised himself as much, and with painkillers sucking off the most awful edge and the rest a tolerable ache, he could tentatively argue with that hypothetical. He was happier without the arc reactor. There were many reasons to be happier without the arc reactor.

For example, the encasement froze in the wintertime. Despite shirts and sweaters and coats and precautions, the metal would cool until it hurt the skin and bone around it. The vacuum to his chest was stressful on his stressed-out heart, and more stress was the last thing he needed. Taking it out made a lot of sense. 

Better still, it had increased his lung capacity. The first time had felt like a miracle, drawing in a steady breath and having it fill out his whole chest rather than hitching halfway through. He had teared up, a little, but that had been easy to blame it on the morphine. The first deep breath Tony Stark had taken in five years had felt like salvation, like a new beginning. 

And yet here he was. Looking back.

Smoothing his hand over his skin, longing to see the hole in his chest that had been part of him for five years, he marveled at its lack.

He mourned, silently, where no one could hear him. 

It had been more than his burden; it had been his night light. Getting him through the darkest of days, the lowest moments, a shining white-blue reminder that he was alive. Waking up from that surgical sleep and finding the light gone had been like returning home from a very long assignment in orbit: suddenly, he didn’t have his one true compass, the thing that had never changed, no matter how much else had. His life had become _complicated_ again, without the one, simplifying factor present.

There were benefits, of course, things that could not be dismissed just because the light was gone. The light needed attending; now, he didn’t have to worry about the special tape he used to cover it up and protect it while he showered. If he so desired, at nearly three in the morning, he could pad out of his hotel room, sneak down to the pool, and have a dip, all without stopping to worry if the tape was truly secure. What a magical thing, he reflected, to have new _opportunities_. To be able to leap without looking. To swim freely again. 

It was one of so many things given back to him. And all it had taken was his pale blue dot.

He had really liked the designs, the facing, the encasing of the light. He’d worked very hard on them, spent many hours on the arbitrary look of the unarbitrary thing keeping him alive. It hadn’t been keeping him alive, exactly—his heart had. The arc reactor had merely been a crude power source, assisting it, protecting it. His beating heart had been and remained the important thing, even if he couldn’t see that, and never wanted to. 

His heart was what he needed to worry about, not the glowing blue light in his chest that said, _You are alive. You are alive, and everything is going to be fine, as long as the light stays on_.

On a whim, he reached over and turned off the bathroom light, expecting brilliant blue starlight to flood the space. Instead, it was wretchedly, unimaginably dark. Cold like water washed over him, and he gasped, clutching at his chest, fumbling for the wall and the light switch that suddenly seemed far from his fingers. He wasn’t—he wasn’t—he flinched as yellow light filled the space, and revealed that he wasn’t in the cave, of course not. Wasn’t anywhere near it. He was in a hotel room en suite.

How utterly generic, he thought, exhausted and sad and willing himself not to take any more painkillers just because of it. He wasn’t hurting, not really, not _badly_. 

He was just sad.

“I’m broken,” he told Steve, keeping his voice quiet as he put one knee on the bed. He didn’t expect a response, exactly, but Steve was the lightest sleeper he’d ever met, and the hum of the hotel room air conditioner was noisy and unpredictable.

Rolling over, Steve blinked up at Tony, eyes adjusting to the same lack of light, sweeping over his chest. A hand rested on Tony’s hip, thumb stroking his skin. “Why?” he rasped.

Tony wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He shuffled forward, then started to lie down, flinching when he moved wrong and the pain settled in, deep, unfamiliar. Lying down was difficult, now—the easy things had become hard again. Tears burned in his eyes. He had lost and lost and lost, and others had taken, and now, he should be happy. “I miss it,” he whispered, an explanation, a simple truth.

Steve lounged next to him, one hand tucked under his own head, the other stroking Tony’s hip again, extremely warm, comfortingly close. He didn’t say anything, freeing up the space. Staring at the ceiling, Tony whispered, “I’m not supposed to.”

“No one ever said change was easy,” Steve murmured, low, from the heart. “It’s just permanent.”

Unable to take it, to hell with the gasp of pain it tore from him, Tony rolled onto his side and buried himself against Steve’s side, desperate to feel warm and right again. He wanted to believe it was the medication—he had barely been conscious the first three days, recalling a grand total of two meals and a few slurred remarks, although surely there were more, unremembered memories—but he doubted, too, because the clarity of thoughts was disarmingly personal.

 _I miss it. I miss it. I miss it_. It was like the beat of his heart. It ached inside him, more than the burn of artificial bone and healing skin.

Steve murmured, “Hon,” and gently rolled him back onto his back. It was less pressure on his chest, a lot easier, overall, but he didn’t like to sleep on his back, because then hands could snatch at his chest, and it was safer, always, to protect his metal heart against Steve’s skin. 

Panicking a little, he squirmed, gasped, but Steve crawled over him, careful not to lean his weight on him. Tony hooked both arms around his neck and held on so tightly it had to hurt. “Oh, love,” Steve murmured, nuzzling Tony’s shoulder. He slid his own arms under the back of Tony’s shoulders, his weight on his knees to keep him from hurting Tony, the soft marble of his skin incredibly steady. “I’ve gotcha. I promise.” Humming softly, a sleepy, errant sound, Steve breathed, “Everything’s gonna be okay. Just rest.”

Tony shut his eyes, savoring the feel of him, his own grip loosening slowly. He had a vision of Steve in a hospital room chair, chin tipped towards his own shoulder, fast asleep. By staying very still, Tony had been able to watch him, to really soak in the breadth of Steve Rogers’ love for him. Steve would sleep in a hospital room before he would abandon Tony, and for a guy who hated hospitals almost as much as Tony, it was heartening. He wasn’t alone. He was never alone—Steve was there, the week that that they behind white walls, and he was here, too.

Tony dozed a little, coming to and surprising himself that Steve was still with him and not on another continent, taking care of the rest of the world. He was still Captain America, and he always would be, shield or no shield, uniform or no uniform. People needed him desperately. It was very selfish of Tony to need so much of him. But it was a point Tony was unflinching on. _I need you. I need you to be with me._

Steve had his own forehead pressed against the pillow beside him, not sleeping, almost meditating, his breathing deep and even. Tony turned towards it, kissed his cheek. Steve hummed in response. Something warmed in Tony’s chest to hear it, the promise, reiterated, a hundred times in a single two-week period. _You won’t be alone_. It was one thing to hear it, but chest-swelling to see it. 

Steve slowly loosened his grip, then carefully climbed off and settled next to him. Tony grasped at his arm, but Steve rolled onto his own side and rested a heavy leg over both of Tony’s. He settled a gentle hand over Tony’s belly, just below the edge of the bandages, and tucked his chin over Tony’s shoulder. Eyes still shut, breathing even, he still wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t fully awake, either, only as conscious as he needed to be not to hurt Tony.

Tony felt firmly held, firmly _loved_ , and tried not to sniffle, but it happened to him, a tearless unhappiness that demanded expression. Steve didn’t draw attention to it, just stroked his skin with his thumb and breathed.

It would take weeks to truly adjust, to remove the bandages protecting his newly broken skin. He wasn’t a lighthouse, anymore, but that would be okay, because he didn’t need any light to find what mattered around him. 

And, when he became nostalgic, he could press the new, portable reactors to his shirt, to his _skin_ , and marvel at how far he had come from carrying car batteries around. It was a symbol—a reminder. 

_I’m still Iron Man. It’s still part of me, even if it’s not eating me, anymore_.

But right then—right then, he just focused on healing, and fell into a sleep so deep it could only be healing.


End file.
